


if i was a killer then what were you

by Piyo13



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: M/M, POV Second Person, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-27
Updated: 2014-10-27
Packaged: 2018-02-22 19:43:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2519564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Piyo13/pseuds/Piyo13
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Bucky visits the Smithsonian, and the aftermath.</p>
            </blockquote>





	if i was a killer then what were you

You see your face staring back at you, ’40s graininess sharpened and restored to the best of modern technology. Your arm flexes as quietly as it can manage under the jacket you’ve chosen to hide it, the first time you’ve been able to in—in years. 

Correction: your face doesn’t stare at you. It stares off to an angle, almost 3/4ths but not quite, you’re sure  _he_  would know what it’s called—you don’t remember the photo being taken. It feels wrong to admit that, even to yourself, but you don’t. 

(You feel like a traitor even more than the memories you’re left with tell you because you’ve forgotten— _he was your best friend, your end of the line and you_ forgot _, you forgot and for so so long you didn’t even_ care _and there comes a point when it’s too late to make amends and you’re certain you’ve reached and overshot and you don’t want to keep going but—)_

You barely even remember anything here. The strangers that mill around you know more  _about_  you than you do—did—ever have? You don’t know. You don’t know if you ever will. 

You don’t  _fucking know_ —

Your arm whirrs, startling the person standing next to you. You decide it’s time for you to leave. It’s not like you haven’t seen the entire exhibit anyways. Not like you haven’t read every word twice-over, despaired over their meaning because it’s all so familiar, so  _familiar_  but you  _can’t remember, they stole it from you—_

It’s a struggle, to keep your paces measured and calm as you leave. You duck your head as you pass by security cameras, allowing your cap to hide your face, out of instinct as well as prudence. The longer it takes for you to get out, the more urgent the need is. 

You can feel it rising up, blocking your throat—swallowing normally is a thought long-gone, you have to fight your lungs to keep your breathing normal, your head starts to spin and the urge to run, to scream, to pretend nothing ever happened—

—to pretend you’re still a young boy from Brooklyn, roughhousing with your best friend, to pretend you remember what that means in words that are your own, not written by others’ hands—

You break into a sprint the minute your feet are out the door. You keep running until it’s dark out, your sprint having devolved into a tempered jog over time. You’re not sure where you are, but you notice hooded figures walking the streets alongside you. Or maybe alongside isn’t the right word; they’re  _avoiding_ you. 

(As if they can sense the shadows of your past, creeping up behind you—the shadows that you remember, the ones that aren’t black but the color of dried blood, they can sense that you’re a soldier,  _were_  a soldier, a hunter, a _killer_ ,  _a demon_ —) _  
_

You’ve slowed down to a walk now, your feet scuffing the pavement. Your boots are the only thing you haven’t changed out. They’re a little worse for the wear, but ultimately they fit, and shoes are expensive and you’ve no money and it’s harder to smuggle out shoes than it is to smuggle out clothes and were that your shadows weren’t quite so effective at hiding you because then, maybe, you wouldn’t steal but you’ve got to survive even when you don’t want to because his voice echoes constantly in your head, a repeating litany, constant chanting of  _I’m with you til the end of the line I’m with you til the end I’m with you I’m with you I’m with you—_

_—but who_ are _you,_  you want to shout back, you  _do_  shout back, curled up under a dark bridge with only a stray cat as your witness and you’re not sure who you’re asking, really, because you know who he is, you know who you’re supposed to be, but who you’re supposed to be and who you  _are_ aren’t the same person and you’re  _lost,_ so  _lost—_

The cat runs off when you punch the cement wall you were leaning against, the impact covering you in white dust and leaving a three-inch-deep crater in the wall. The metal of your knuckles isn’t even dented. 

You punch again and again, both hands, until you collapse, sobbing, one fist pale with pulverized cement and the other bloody with torn skin and nearly-broken bone. You fall into fitful sleep before your tears have even dried.

You wake up the next day with the sun and a swollen hand. You don’t know which bothers you more. In the end you decide it’s the sun—it feels so misplaced; your world has come to the apocalypse and past it, so why should the sun keep going? You sit up, stretch your back along the pockmarked wall, starting with surprise when you realize the cat from last night is back, gazing at you curiously. 

After a second’s hesitation, you extend your hand—the one that’s truly yours, flesh and too much blood. You’re even more surprised when the cat approaches you, nose extended cautiously, sniffing. It licks your hand, tongue rough and warm and a bit painful considering the state of your hand but you welcome it because you feel accepted and it’s stupid because it’s a  _cat_  but this cat’s shown you more affection than you’ve had in decades and you can’t help but feel overwhelmingly grateful because the cat doesn’t care it doesn’t judge it doesn’t avoid you because you’re a killer—

No. You  _were_  a killer. Emphasis on the past tense. You aren’t any more. (Even to you it sounds like you’re trying to convince yourself but maybe, just maybe, the cat is right and you don’t have to pose a danger anymore and maybe you can live your own life and maybe just maybe you’re coming to terms with what you can remember and what you won’t and it hurts you even now and you never thought you’d be so emotional about a  _cat_  but here you are—)

The cat leaves several minutes later, apparently satisfied with the taste of your hand. You take a deep breath to calm yourself, to assure yourself that you’re still human and that you can still breathe (you can and you are and it’s such a  _relief_ ). You set out for the day, scrounging for food wherever you can. It’s not much, but you’ve had worse, and you share some with the cat because you owe it. 

It takes you a week for you to summon enough courage, weaving strands together until you feel strong enough to do what you’ve been planning to do for too long now. It doesn’t take you long to find the house—you were told before where it was, you haven’t forgotten, because those memories were never taken from you, your mental map of the city is as impeccable as it was when you were last muzzled and set loose for the kill. 

It takes you a while of staring at the door before you can knock, in any case. You wonder if its too early (you also know that you’re stalling, but your breath is coming up short again and you take time trying to calm it back down but the longer you wait the shorter it becomes and it’s a negative feedback loop, really, so you finally stretch a hand forward—silver, because your other hasn’t quite healed yet and hands limply beside you instead, bruises still dark and inflamed—and rap on the door).

It takes you a second to realize your knocking isn’t a normal three-point knock, but rather a complex, multi-beat affair. You don’t remember learning that knock, but it feels right, so when the door doesn’t open you repeat it, letting your muscle memory take over and trying not to think too hard. 

You’re about to repeat it for the third time because you  _need_  that door to open, you know that if it doesn’t you’ll slink away and who knows when you’ll come back—

—and then it’s pulled backwards, and it’s  _him_ , standing there, his mouth slightly parted but his brow unfurrowed, the picture of surprised confusion and you  _stare_  because this isn’t how you saw him last, he isn’t beat up and bloodied by your hand, he isn’t wearing a military outfit from the ’40s, he just standing there, staring back at you, face smooth as ever and wearing a t-shirt and shorts and his mouth opens further and carefully, tremulously, he takes a breath to speak and—

"…Bucky?" 

Hopeful, cautious, defensive and maybe even a little scared. You look down to the floor, aware of your hair falling, greasy and unkempt, in front of your face. You take breath as if it’s your last, and for all you know it could be, you wouldn’t blame him for hating your guts, not after what you’ve done, and even if you’ve begun to come to terms with it it’s still only  _begun_  to and you don’t know what he thinks or if even you should answer but the air fills your lungs and it demands to be let out so you open your mouth in turn now and you speak, the first time since punching a wall until you collapsed, your voice hoarse and sandpaper-y as it climbs up your throat—

"Hi, Steve."

It’s all you can manage and you hope it’s enough and you’re almost on the point of tears—

—and you’re between his arms, enveloped in a crushing hug and he’s muttering something as he buries his face into your neck and you swear he’s crying but maybe that’s only you because you’re no longer on the point of tears they’re streaming unbidden down your face and you bring up your arms to return the hug tentatively at first but then holding on as if you life depends on it and maybe it does, maybe it really does, and you’re still crying when the pressure of arms around you lessens and you mirror the action and Steve’s stepping away from you and wiping his eyes and stepping aside from the doorway and saying ‘why don’t you come in, I just made coffee’ and you’re still crying but he wipes those tears away as well and you end up talking over a steaming mug until the mug is no longer steaming but empty and it’s been decades since anything’s felt so  _right._

You say so, you thank him, trying your best to smile even though it feels as though you’ve forgotten how. He smiles back, a genuine smile. 

"What can I say," he says, grin twisting with a hint of nostalgia and sadness. "I’m with you ‘til the end of the line."

He wipes your next tears away, too.


End file.
